


The Efficient Man

by Jolarock



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Coffee, Communism, Gen, Haircuts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:03:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolarock/pseuds/Jolarock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marvel movie-canon, just after the end of CA;WS.  James slowly deprogramming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Efficient Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsukinobara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinobara/gifts).



Finding the money was surprisingly easy. There had been a few dead bodies along the way, shaken loose during the explosions and now floating in the Potomac River. He takes what he can use. When you are used to doing what you must, to get the mission done as quickly and efficiently as possible, you do not consider things like the smell of charred human meat and hair, or the feel of water-bloated skin. Yet they exist, and he smells and feels these things with his senses, he takes note of them, but they are not a significant variable in the decision-making process. 

Later, when standing in front of the exhibit at the Smithsonian, he feels safe in the crowd of people. It’s not a matter of hiding, it’s simply that he isn’t really there. People’s eyes slide off, even children instinctively look away. Colorful shadows move around him when he walks, the crowd shattering and reforming in his wake. 

He is a ghost, something out of the distant past. He takes in information and files it away as important, but its meaning is not entirely clear. There is a hopelessly wide chasm between the man and the ghost of the man.

Later, in the cheapest room of the cheapest hotel he can find, he makes note of the fact that there are two narrow beds. This extra bed serves no function and is unnecessary, it has no purpose and will not serve the state. These words come unbidden into his head, freighted with meaning. 

As a lanky piece of brown hair falls over one eye, it occurs to him that long hair is a liability, It could obscure vision and become detrimental, it is inefficient. It serves no function and is unnecessary, it has no purpose and will not serve the state. The words mean something, maximum efficiency must be maintained at all times. 

There is a tiny sewing kit in the bathroom. It is open and has only a few thread colors left, blue and yellow, a needle, and a small pair of scissors. They are slightly too small for his fingers to use, but he slowly cuts each tendril of hair about five centimeters away from his scalp. It takes a long time, but there is no reason to hurry. 

When he is done, he notes two things: his eyes are blue, and he has made a mess. He has seen himself in a mirror before, but never noted the color of his eyes, it was not an important variable to consider, it was unimportant, it did not serve … 

He had made a mess. There was dark brown hair on the floor, in the sink, plastered to the wet drain of the sink and clinging to the back of his neck. It was his mess, and he made it. He was suddenly protective of it, wanting to gather it up to himself, as if to say I AM HERE, I have made this, it is mine and I AM. 

He was still holding a few strands, squeezing them tight in his more efficient hand. He opens it to watch the strands fall to the floor. Even if they are swept up and thrown out, they will still exist somewhere. They have permanence. When he walks out of the bathroom, he notes that his shoes have tracked hair onto the carpet. Now his mess is in two rooms. He has chosen to make more of a mess. 

On the bureau, next to an old plastic binder with outdated restaurant information, there is a cup of coffee. It is a day old. When the desk clerk indicated the free coffee last night, he mechanically went over to take it. It seemed wasteful and inefficient to not take food or drink, when the room was paid for. 

However, he only now drank it - cold, bitter and slightly oily on top. He noted the taste, temperature and texture. There was nothing wrong with it. It was coffee, it was drink, it would be effective. These facts were clear, and somewhere just out of reach was a roaring noise of emotion. 

It was effective, it was efficient, it would … it was bad. The roaring in his ears almost made him black out. The coffee was terrible. It tasted bad and it would serve the state.

*****************************************  
A few people behind him in line at Sweet Bean were making impatient noises. Without much else to go on, he made his coffee choice based on what had the longest and most decadent sounding name. When the tattooed girl asked him if he wanted a flavor shot, he said yes. To all of them. Except hazelnut. He had no reason to say no to hazelnut, except wanting to say no to something. When she asked him his name, he gave her the name of his ghost.

“James?” a skinny blond guy later calls out. When he reads the name on his cup, he stares at the little symbol after it, and it takes him a long time to realize it is a small outline of a heart. 

There is no room in the café, so he steps around a stroller and goes outside. His coffee has foam on it, little sprinkles of cinnamon, and a lattice-work of something light brown and something darker. It is hot, so he holds it in the hand that is more efficient for holding hot coffee. People still look away from the hand, but he notices a few look at his face. He needs to go soon, he’ll need to disappear. But not yet. 

He sips his drink and registers that it is exceedingly sweet. It’s hot, strong and milky and very very sweet. This coffee is also terrible. This coffee that he chose and paid for is very bad.

A snatch of memory hits him like lightning. Sanka. The front seat of a Jeep at night, and someone handing him a thermos of cold Sanka. He doesn’t think he asked for it, it was given to him to drink. One must maintain peak efficiency and effectiveness to serve the state.

He finishes his terribly sweet coffee because it is his. His choices, his coffee. When a little boy in a green tee-shirt laughs up at him, he realizes he has a bit of foam clinging to his upper lip, and licks it away absently. His coffee is finished, and it’s time to disappear again. 

His paper cup joins a few others in the trash. Like all of the others, it proves that someone was there.

James♥

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: Under Communism (in Poland) I recall there never being several kinds of things to choose from, if you got ham at the store you just got HAM because they had something and that’s what the something was. When my mom first came to America the first poleroids she sent back were of her standing in the meat isle of a grocery store in front of like 20 kinds of prepackaged meats. I recall the choices here being staggering, of being dizzy, almost high with the excitement of CHOICE. I chose to daw on my personal experience for this fic.


End file.
